See. But What Is It?

I remember shopping for vegetables with my mother (see blog April 10^thand May13th, 2012). There were two local green grocers, One green grocer (and various family members who moved in and out of the little back room) was either Italian or Greek. It was hard to tell, as they spoke a language my ear was not used to hearing back then. I’m pretty sure they were Italian. But the brother ran the local fish shop and the dad ran the local real estate. I just can’t remember the name. It was interesting to watch the men, in and out of the little back room of the store. Always sitting, and watching the customers. What went on back there? There were always men sitting and talking. Often, consuming glasses of a dark looking liquid (No doubt, this was only coffee, but then, I only knew about instant coffee, and certainly was never allowed it). This was a dark serious liquid they would sip. It was often the woman who came out to do the final bagging and cost the vegetables for us. They must have wondered a little at our regular purchases. Probably thought our food was boring. We always seemed to buy the same potatoes, carrots, a cabbage and sometimes some beans. But remember, our mother was feeding ten people, so it tended to be the cheaper foods that could cover several meals.

I remember standing and waiting while she shopped, or before I was asked to load a bag, looking at the layered leaves of the artichoke, the deep purple eggplant and pointy okra (yes, there were a few Greeks in our neighbourhood), the Chinese snake beans and Lebanese cucumbers. There were often several strange vegetables here where we shopped regularly (providing my mother was getting her value for money). If there was any feeling that she wasn’t getting her money’s worth, then she went to the alternative greengrocer, around the corner. He was a small smiling Chinamen with a busy family. Even the young children, if they weren’t child minding, they would come out to serve. Unfortunately my mother had a bit of a hang up about Asian faces after the war (from some twenty-five years earlier). We were always threatened not to marry a Japanese person. But she could obviously overcome her dislikes if savings were necessary, despite her common saying if one of the kids complained about something being ‘not fair”. She would rapidly reply. ‘No dear, and neither is a Chinaman’. Then we found it funny, not Racist. It was just an old English saying. She certainly never intended harm, but was just regurgitating the English heritage attitude, which had been instilled in her early years. The old sayings from the turn of the 20^th century. At the Chinese greengrocer, he used to have selection of even stranger fruits. Then, the weird and wonderful fruits that were occasionally available. The large short spiked Durian, the fiery looking Dragon fruit, even the Paw-Paws and the five sided Carambola.

(Continued tomorrow)

See What You Like

So while the menu in our house was very ‘traditional’ (for traditional read English) there were certain meals that were not favourites, and others that were. As I mentioned yesterday, if, at the time of choosing I had wanted to create a menu as a ‘last meal’ my knowledge would have been a little limited. Probably would have chosen as an entree, a bowl of ‘Honey Puffs”©. These were our ‘traditional’ Christmas breakfast treat. Puffed wheat with a sticky honey coating. A box of this cereal cost about three times more than our usual cereal, and, since it would disappear in one single sitting, it was only purchased for our Christmas breakfast. And we loved them. So much so that the very first food I brought when I left home and went flatting, was a box of ‘Honey Puffs’©. And ate the lot myself.

I also loved mashed potatoes, and still do, just choose different varieties for the ‘mashing’. Didn’t know till years later there are different varieties that suit particular cooking styles. I also love corned beef (with mashed potatoes) and still do. But would that have been my main course? Many years ago I was about 13 years old and took on a bet while working. We had had Roast herb chickens at a lunch where I was working. I had really enjoyed it. It was quite a different taste to the way we had ever had roasted chicken. I must have been talking quite a lot (something I still do too often) about how great it was and all sorts of other things, that I was told by the supervisor, “If you could be quiet for two hours, you can have a whole one to yourself’. Two hours? Not just a few minutes. There was general laughter from the others I was working with. Various comments such as, “That won’t happen”. “Impossible”. “He’ll never do it”. Boy, I must have talked an awful lot if so many people thought I couldn’t be quiet for just two hours.

Needless to say, I have a certain determined streak, even then I could be stubborn. I decided to do it. I accepted the challenge. I checked the details. One whole chicken, for myself? If, I could be quiet, completely quiet, for two whole hours? Confirmed. So. I kept my mouth closed for over an hour. Those who thought I couldn’t began to believe I was going to try for the two hours, seriously. After an hour and a half, they started trying to get me to speak. Trying to catch me out. I recall the sudden “What’s that?” questions thrown at me. And the simple “So, how old are you?”. By the time I got to the last 10 minutes of the two hours, I had to keep my jaw tightly together, just so I wouldn’t say anything. My head was hurting from not talking. My muscles around my jaw and my teeth were hurting. Was it really worth this for a roast chicken? It wasn’t just the roast chicken, it was a point of honour (remember the duelling see blog June 15 2012). And okay. It was the chicken as well. And it was delicious. I ate the whole thing.

(Continued tomorrow)

See the menu

I made my way back to the room, with the smell of the cooking pudding, which I was not allowed to have, filling my nostrils. Memory of the soft pillowy texture rolled across the surface of my tongue. My mouth savoured the memory. Okay, the tongue doesn’t have a memory. Which is why I always say to people when having to be in a bad smelling location, “Breathe through the mouth, not your nose”. It may taste weird, but breathing through your nose has links directly to your memory. If it is a really bad smell, then you don’t want to trigger your memory in future circumstances.  Have you ever stood somewhere and just gently sniffed. In that way of seeking, which we commonly see in dogs. The nose dilates, delicately, quivering, tweaking, filtering, of a smell, as it enters the nasal passages. The attempt, to identify the particular memory, to identify the specifics of a scent, that may, be recognised, or may be entirely new. The dog pauses, stationary, just the nose twitching. The eyes may scan the area if the scent is on the air. Before, they immediately ‘lock on’ to it. And, if free to run, they go.

I think I was wishing I was ‘free to run’ right at that moment. However, I returned to the room. Fed. Like a condemned man, after his final meal (in some countries), I had eaten my last meal, and was now returning to my ‘cell’ to await the final punishment. Mind you, as I understand it. The condemned man gets to choose his last meal and in most cases, his final punishment would be final. Mine was just postponed. I wonder what my last meal would have been? What were the favourite meals we experienced as children in our house? The ‘Englishness’ of our menu was strong, thanks to our mothers heritage (and probably my fathers own ‘war years’ mother’s cooking). Yes, a lot of the food was boiled, or steamed in the colander (if we were being fancy). Tasted great as we were very used to it. And with eight children there were certain foods which could be afforded to feed the masses with’. Sausages and mashed potatoes (Bangers and Mash) was a common dinner. A Lamb roast was usually a Sunday special and was waited for in high expectation, all week. You would always be hoping to get at least three halves of the crunchy roast potatoes (if you were lucky) and some of the crispy fat edge of the leg of lamb (though often mutton). The cheapest green vegetable was cabbage, or (dreadful notes of doom sound out – dum, dum, dum!) Brussel sprouts! I never minded them, though there were several major disputes in our house over the refusal to consume them, but some family members. And on at least one occasion a battle of wills between my next older sister, my father, and a plate (containing only three little sprouts), that dragged on long into the evening with a definite refusal to consume them by my sister (She eventually lost the following day).

(continued tomorrow)

Seeing he was damaged....

So dinner was passing in silence (of sorts) with each of us imagining just what our brother was going through. Those of us who may have seen a few of the ‘horror films’ of the period, may have imagined things a little differently. Mind you, since there were no such things as VCR’s or DVD’s, it was only the ‘horror’ movies that may have been shown on a Sunday afternoon on a wet or snowy day, when we were allowed to watch something before father watched his sports. Which means I would be a “general’ release horror film. Where amongst the bad acting, low budget sets, constant mist and fog and filming, you definitely had to use your imagination. But how terrifying were the regular cast members. Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Performing in any number of mad professor, evil henchmen, Dracula, mummy or vengeful killer roles. Your imagination would engage very quickly and even in the middle of the day, frights would still happen in broad daylight. Though if it was snowing outside, then the curtains may have be drawn adding to the atmosphere.

With such knowledge and experiences we may have thought our brothers brain may have been severely damaged and right now, the doctors were setting about replacing it. Perhaps they would be looking for a donor? Perhaps they could replace it with a smart rat (okay, probably none of us thought that at the time) or a chimpanzee (that would have come up). Our brother could return home craving bananas and other fruit. Wanting to swing from the rafters (see a little imagination).  Or at least, we sat at the table, quietly eating the dinner, wondering if he would pull through. He had definitely not looked well as he was being taken out by the ambulance officers. The tension was palpable. The dinner was stressful. I finished what was on my plate. Then the shock came. “You had better go back to the room and wait for dad.” My sister suddenly said. I must have looked stunned. I knew there was pineapple upside down pudding for dessert. “Go on.”

I stood up and left the table glancing into the lit oven where the pudding was baking. Golden and delicious looking.  How cruel was this. “What about pudding?” I asked. “Mum said just dinner.” My sister replied. No doubt aware of how cruel this sounded. “That’s not… “ I started to say and then with one look from my sister, I stopped what I was about to say and turned from the table to revisit my bedroom to await my fathers return.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Imagining

I made full use of my imagination and was an avid reader even at a young age and at a time when space travel was becoming a definite possibility. By seven years of age, man was on his way to the moon and there was a lot of talk of taking the next step to Mars. Then, not a lot was known about it, and we had some wonderful books (now in paperback), as to what may or may not be there. I had read the H.G. Wells ‘War of the Worlds, and started reading another particular book, based upon the successful BBC radio programme, ‘The Red Planet”, by Charles Chilton. I think the original story, ‘A Journey Into Space’ went on air (and literally into space) in 1953, and the ‘Red Planet’ was the third instalment in the series. I did not ever get to hear the series, but, I had just acquired the small paperback printing from pan publishers. I even remember their logo on the spine of the book. Now the story was written as a novel. I had taken the book down the back garden on a fine day (for Dunedin) and seated myself under the small apple tree, which grew near the back fence. I had read enthralled for about half an hour, “Orders must be obeyed without question’ was instilled in the victims, when the captured people were brainwashed, until, my imagination really kicked in. I started to get worried about being ‘taken’ or being watched (Cue theme music – back then we didn’t have the twilight zone, or X-files yet, so you will have to imagine your own).

I rapidly came back inside the house and sat down in the kitchen. My mother walked into the room and took one look at me and I saw concern fly across her face. “Are you alright?” she asked. “You look white as a sheet.” That was another phrase when people were in shock. Referring of course to the whitest thing in a household, the cotton sheets. This was considered the height of cleanliness to have white cotton sheets. Long before the idea of ‘respectable’ people ever having a coloured sheet in the house (unless you worked in that profession which used black satin ones apparently) or in a bedroom. I looked up at her very frightened and said, “Yes, it just got very scary.” “What did?” She asked looking out the window at the fine sunny day. “The space story.” I said holding up the book. She looked at me and burst out laughing. “Honestly, you and your imagination.” She said.

There was only an imagination that went with an good education and extensive reading. Listening and learning from others, and being interested in all sorts of weird and wonderful things. Even then. Even today. There is so much still to learn in the world. There are so many interesting facts, figures, lessons, crafts and ideas. I have never wanted to stop. A lot of people ask me where I get the ideas I come out with. It’s definitely from reading as much as I do and from my vivid imagination.

(Continued tomorrow)

See How Scary It Can Be

There are a great many ways to encourage the imagination, and fear has often been one of them. Often instilled into the minds of young children. For example, while looking for a particular nursery rhyme for my sister just the other day (she wanted the ‘apples and pears’ one about cockney slang. If anyone knows it, I would love to hear from you as I cannot find it despite various books and even Internet searches) I came across a classic example of how the imagination is fed on imagery rather than proof.

Baby, baby, naughty baby, Hush you squalling thing I say.

Peace this moment, peace or maybe, Bonaparte will pass this way.

Baby, baby, he’s a giant. Tall and black as Rouen Steeple

And he breakfasts dines, rely on’t. Every day, on naughty people.

                                                            The Mother Goose Treasury ©1966

And that was just the first verse. Had Napoleon Bonaparte stood before us of course, we would have seen only a five foot six (or seven) inch tall man, not a 250 feet tall giant (as the Rouen Steeple was). But such was the propaganda, which of course relied entirely on fear. Instilling in others the fear they could be terrified, beaten, or possibly eaten by the ‘enemy’ of the time.

Propaganda has always relied on instilling fear as opposed to facts. I recall my mother, who unfortunately had suffered a lot through the second world war as a child in England claimed, when I was doing research for a school assignment and had asked her about what propaganda she remembered, “We (The British) never used propaganda.” Oh dear. How effective was the propaganda then? That it was never recognised as such. But then again, I highlight the fact it was propaganda. Sometimes you weren’t even supposed to know it was happening. A wonderful example, of positive propaganda was the classic 1942 film Mrs Miniver. While an American production, it was set outside of London during the war. While it was a ‘fearful’ film about the hardships and tragedies of a family during that time, it was also inspiring in its story and script. Even some parts of the script were used by the President of the United States in moral boosting speeches and in letter drops over occupied Europe. Like I said, pure propaganda. Just making use of a different approach. Yet relying so much on the imagination. You didn’t see anyone shot to pieces or blown up directly. But you knew they suffered by the splash, smoke or expression.

But as children, the imagination, whether stimulated by our parents for training behaviour, or just random moments, was brought into effect, as much as possible. The mind could play horrible tricks on a child with a good imagination. I recall the common childhood fears of the dark, the closet monsters (and no, Pixar® had it wrong, they were very scary sometimes) and even war of the worlds aliens, the cold war and babysitters. A vivid imagination could play havoc with a child.

(Continued tomorrow)

See the result (No Imagination required)

With all the pressure of the family eating in forced silence and the still anticipated punishment from my father, the presence was less like a large person breathing down our neck, and hovering at the edge of our vision. It was more like an enormous person squeezing into that undersized seat on the airplane next to you as you prepare for an 18hr flight across the Pacific Ocean.  Overbearing, engulfing your armrest, shading you in your seat (even if you have the window seat) and, while not able to be addressed over the issue directly, everyone is very aware of the discomfit felt.

The food was placed on the table and with muted, ‘could you please pass the salt’, or the potatoes or such. Nobody wanted to say anything. Everyone was worried about our younger brother. We had not heard anything since our parents had left for the hospital. Each of us had our own impressions of what we had last seen and being young minds with vivid imaginations, we had probably each imagined it was worse than it may have been. I know I had. I had honestly believed that I had killed him. And even when carrying him home streaming blood from his injury, I did not think he was going to make it. We ad imagined so much

That was how it used to be. Our imagination was put to good use. We would read books (we had that advantage over many of the children of today) and had to create from the words, the very content and structure, the shapes and colours of what we were reading. We had to comprehend the actual emotions. We needed to read a wider variety of subject matter to understand what was being discussed and considered. It required awareness of history and a general knowledge of the world, the countries and customs. Knowledge of the sciences, and the arts. It was important to be well informed to appreciate the individual nuances of any piece we were reading. The more we read the more we needed to read. And given the education that already existed in our house, with the sharing of knowledge between siblings, and access to information above what would be normal for our years, we acquired a sound understanding of the world.

This is particularly obvious in observing the difference with visuals used in films of today, compared to the films of the past. If you have ever truly watched some early thriller movies such as Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ and then observed a modern version thriller. They (the film directors and producers) no longer leave it to the imagination. The modern visuals seem to insist on showing the actual knife/sickle/sword/trident, slicing into the victim. Often in slow motion for effect, but consequently sacrificing the vividness of the ‘concept’ by showing exactly how it looks. Rather than the ‘terror’ of the ‘imagined’ effect. This is one of the biggest disappointments in such films for me today. Wasting of my imagination.

 (Continued tomorrow)

See Nothing, Feel The Presence

So I sat at the table, feeling the intense pressure of the silence that hung in the room with what felt like a genuine ‘presence’. The impression imposed by that silence was similar to the feeling for example, when, an annoying person, who, in wanting your attention, hovers in the corner of your vision, whilst you are intensely engaged in something else. You know they are there, you even acknowledge that you are aware of them, and that you are busy. But they don’t simply signal they will go away and come back when you are free. They stay and move around the very edges. Never just, quietly stepping into the front view and, simply sitting down. To sit unobtrusively and patiently, awaiting your attention. They hang there, in the corner of your vision and your attention. You have to keep looking up and reassuring them you are not free just then, but you know they are waiting. It was that sort of feeling initially.

Then, on top of that, there was knowledge of the reason for the silence. That certainly added weight to the situation. So now it was like a large, heavy, annoying person, hovering in the edge of your vision. Actually this one was breathing (or rasping) down your neck. The dinner plate was put before me, the family of brothers and sisters (sans one brother and no parents), gathered at the table. My youngest brother was still looking about the table at each of us (with his mouth and lips still clenched together), but a smile now, instead of a frown. Two of my sisters couldn’t keep a straight face any longer, which only encouraged him even more. I should have felt a bit like the condemned man, given that just a few minutes earlier (and for the last few hours) I had been. And in reality I still was. Just facing a minor (and much appreciated) ‘stay of execution’. But there was a certain irrepressible spirit in seeing my younger brother desperately wanting to cross the boundary he had been given by the ‘caretaker’ mother in the form of my older sister.

Everyone was straining not to speak to me. But in our house, silence at the dinner table had very seldom happened. It was perfectly natural. Eight children and parents could, even when whispering to each other, raise a fair volume of ‘ambient’ sound. Though this was not always appreciated, it could not be helped. I have previously mentioned my mother’s ability to monitor several conversations at the table at once (see blog Friday April 20^th 2012). The skill required for this was even more obvious, when the normal dinner noise was absent. Such skill as my mother possessed in those situations, can only have come about through intense practice. Right then, it was the opposite. Every little noise was amplified, due to the lack of actual conversation, and added to, by the domination of the feeling of the ‘presence’.

(continued tomorrow)

See The Look

So Cromwell’s idea (being sent to Coventry) was isolation by surrounding the Royalist soldiers with those people who wouldn’t like their ‘ideology’. Doesn’t matter if everything else was wonderful (though how any civil war can create any feelings of wonder I shudder to think), the soldiers found the social isolation so dreadful, the term became a part of the vernacular of social idioms. And my parents (particularly with my mother coming from the English heritage) understood what such isolation would induce in its victims. I must admit, I was often sent to Coventry. Sometimes when the other children were told not to talk to you, or I was told to go to our room. I was to experience the isolation so often, sometimes, I even appreciated it. Seriously, in a house where four boys shared the one room, getting some alone time could be great. A moment alone in our house could at times be a privilege unless there was a serious punishment expected. And generally, if you were ‘sent to Coventry, there was a punishment to come.

Yet, here I was hesitatingly walking from my room, to the kitchen, where other members of the family were seated about to have dinner. Neither of my parents were there, but my sisters had put together dinner for all the younger family members. As I entered the room, everyone’s heads were very, very focused on the plates in front of them, except my younger brother seated at the end of the bench.  He was leaning forward to look where I was about to sit. And smiling. He didn’t fully understand the trouble I was in, but seemed to appreciate there was something different happening. I looked sideways to see his ‘cherub-like’ face (as my mother sometimes described him) peering down the table. ‘Your late.’ He said clearly.

My sister coughed loudly and shook her head towards him. She was already achieving the ‘motherly’ table correction technique. The stern look, and modest shake of the head, was accompanied by a not too subtle, cough in the throat. This was often used by my mother to give advice or direction in a way which my mother seemed to think would not be noticed or heard above the general din. It was a method to gain the attention, in case someone had forgotten their manners, or used the incorrect behaviour at the table. In the silence of the room in this instance (and for our kitchen to be silent at mealtime was almost unheard of), the sound carried very clearly. My youngest brother’s face became serious (which in itself was funny) “I’m doing it” he said in a aggrieved manner. And with a very exaggerated intake of breath and a large action of closing his mouth. He silently clenched it shut. There was a minor snort from one of my other sisters and all of us struggled not to laugh. I was told to sit down and in silence our family began to eat the dinner

(Continued tomorrow)

See Me, But Don't Speak

I know this must sound strange, but don’t ever assume a physical disability means there are mental health issues. I deliberately used the term ‘normal’ in yesterday’s blog as slang, for not having a visual disability. For a good reason. More people probably suffer some form of disability, which you cannot see. When helping up my teen aged charge who suffered badly from the condition, Cerebral Palsy, and who had fallen (yet again). While getting him to his feet as he continued to laugh, he looked me in the eye and slurred out (as was his ability when speaking), ‘You should have seen your face, I’m getting too heavy and you went beet-root (Referring, to the strong colour of a purple staining taproot vegetable popular in Australian hamburger dressing and salads). He then continued with, “I think I’ll fall down, to watch that happen again”. Then it was my turn to laugh. “I replied, “you fall down again and I’ll leave you lying there, laughing”. It was that comment from me, overheard by a passing mother of a ‘normal’ child, which started another complaint about my treatment. Trust me. There was no complaint from the victim. He was more devastated that his actions had led to me being in trouble. The best line from him was said next. ‘I feel sorry for those people. They don’t understand”. Many years later I see he is still right.

However we are back to my sister having entered the room and stood there as I blinked in the light she had just turned on. “Why didn’t you turn on the light?” She asked. “I didn’t think Dad would let me.” I answered. She just took a deep breath and told me to “Come out for dinner?” I stared. I didn’t think I had heard her correctly. Come out for dinner? Surely not? What if my father came home and saw me sitting there eating? My sister must have understood. “They said to give you dinner, but we’re not to talk to you.” Ah, that made sense. In our house, if you were in trouble, one clear instruction from our parents regarding the suspected offender (or guilty offender), was for us “Not to talk to them.” The solitary punishment form often favoured by our mothers ‘English Heritage’. You can see why the English decided to send their convicts away from the privileges of society. To the far side of the world, to feel the loneliness and isolation, the separation experienced by isolation. Being ‘sent to Coventry’ was her other term.

I was often curious about that term. Did it mean what she suggested. When I eventually looked it up later I saw it originated (allegedly) in the 17^th Century in England. A group of Royalist soldiers were sent to the town of Coventry, to be confined in 1648. The other residents at the time were parliamentary supporters, so the soldiers when shunned and the locals refused to consort with them. So that certainly made sense.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Blind Person

No real apology was coming from my girlfriend, as it was my fault for not leaving a clearer message at her work, or indeed as she pointed out, I could have simply left a note at the bottom of the stairs. Of course. I should have thought of that. I should have realised people can’t see in the dark to talk to each other. No wonder people seem to be afraid of those with sight disabilities. Is that a politically correct way of saying ‘blind’? who knows? I still call a spade, a spade…. (That’s a gardening digging tool for those of you not strong on English, as opposed to those of you strong on slang and derogatory comments ). I have watched people physically shrink away from the ‘sight’ disabled when suddenly encountered. Or they respond emphatically and in error.

Isn’t it amazing how people often make two incorrect assumptions when encountering the blind. Both of those assumptions are usually very wide of the mark. The first being that a blind person is also deaf. How often have you seen, or heard people raising their voices, as soon as they encounter a person with sight disabilities. ‘HERE! TAKE MY HAND” (There’s the third error, How can they see to take the hand?). But no, they shout out as if the person with sight disabilities is deaf as well. They may be, but surely that should be asked first.  And then the second common error is that if the person is blind, then they must suffer mental health problems automatically as well. “DO YOU NEED A SPOOOON WITH YOURRR CUUUPP?”. Seriously, people, they can’t see, so it’s simple. Make sure they are aware of any obstacles and ask in a normal tone, if they even need assistance. Otherwise you’ll just be giving them something to complain (or laugh about) to their fellow sight impaired, next time they have a ‘cuppa’ together.

Actually, I think most people can’t handle any form of disability. I used to work with special needs children and was criticised on several occasions for appearing to be blasé in my treatment of them when they had a minor accident, such as one lad who had Cerebral Palsy and was often over excited when getting around resulting in the occasional fall or stumble. I usually laughed (with them) and pick them up if they had fallen over and were struggling, but never rushed up in a panic (they never appreciated people panicking around them, it often agitated them more as it increased attention on them). I always ensured they had suffered no injuries (we still had to note it in the diary) but any such incident was usually ‘treated’ as any ‘normal’ person would be (and yes, ‘normal’ here is slang, for a person without visual disabilities), if they had fallen over. Sometimes, when getting him back to his feet, what made it most difficult was, he would be laughing so much, he had trouble co-ordinating.

(Continued tomorrow)

See How Dark It Is

Right now my heart was in my throat. Here in the dark room, with just enough light to see the turning door handle. I was definitely frightened. The expected punishment was about to be delivered. Even if my father had tricked me, to see if I would leave the room after I heard the taxi leave. Thinking I could get a brief freedom before he returned. But I had held my ground, through fear. A test. Sneaky. Then the door opened and I could see the shape in the doorway. It was not my father, unless he had shrunk slightly, and changed gender. It was in fact my older sister whom had been left in charge when my parents departed. She stopped and reached out to turn on the light. The room illuminated and there she was. “Why were you sitting in the dark?” she asked.

Why do people do that? Knowing someone is sitting in the dark (something I have actually done to relax from time to time), They don’t ask, “Why are you sitting in the dark?” and wait and, more importantly, listen for your reply. They flood the room with light and while you blink owlishly, they then ask the question. I remember the time I had a minor eye injury (not the other eye injury, see blog March 28 2012 ). I had been told by the doctor who had treated me that afternoon for it, to keep a patch on the eye and only to remove it when I had to put drops in the eye and (of course), only to put drops in the eye in the heavily dimmed room. In fact he said, dark room.

So then, going home to the flat that evening, I closed the bedroom curtains and propped myself up in bed with the eye drop bottle in my hand and only a very faint glow through the curtains from a street light, carefully removed my eye patch tapes.

My girlfriend at the time (who I had only left a message for at her work), came home and as she came upstairs to the bedroom, I called out “Hi! Be right with you” being involved with getting the drops up and into my eye I was distracted until she reached through the door, flicked on the bedroom light and asked…. I suddenly discovered why the doctor wanted me to administer the drops in the dark. The sudden brightness and illumination caused my eye to attempt to focus on something and consequently the movement of the eye muscles and lens caused significant pain. Shortly followed by several expletives, including a simple and clear instruction, “Turn off the bloody light!” which my girlfriend (being uninformed of the injury) momentarily took as a personal verbal attack. Which even once the light was off and the situation calmed took some time to resolve to a point of me having to do all of the apologising to her for my reaction to my further suffering through her actions.

(Continued tomorrow)

See Me Fear

I sat in the darkening room, the shadows lengthening and fading, as night fell outside. The sounds from the kitchen could be heard as the rest of the family sat down to eat. I waited in the room. The dark room. I hadn’t been told I could put on the light so rather than risk further reprimand or punishment, I sat there in the dark. Hungry, stressed and fearful. What had happened to my brother after he was rushed to the hospital. To add further information to the filing cabinet of reports our family seemed to contribute. These many incidents must have assisted with improving the studies of the local doctors and nurses. Indeed, if it was not for the various accidents our family ‘appeared’ to frequently have, some doctors and nurses would have had large gaps in their education. Right now they would be engaged in examining the massive head wound my younger brother was suffering? Was his head wound actually smashed through to the brain? Were the doctors trying to piece it together? Were there any bits left behind in the park that we had missed? Were the crows and scavengers already gathering them up and feasting on the pieces? If there were pieces missing, would it change his behaviour? Could we replace the bits with other pieces of brains? With the amount of blood that had streamed from his head as I carried him home. Had he bleed out? Were my parents actually going to the hospital now for the bad news. Was the priest standing at the bedside having administered last rites (Even then, television and the movies were already contributing to the stereotypes we were being invested with)?

Then there were steps approaching the bedroom door. So, was I right? My father had not left? Was this it? All the waiting was finally over (and all the waiting for those of you who have been reading the blog about the incident)? The steps stopped outside the door and the handle turned. My heart was racing. The expressive terms of fear sometimes used, that ‘my heart was in my mouth’ or ‘my heart leapt to my throat’ was clear. It is of course simply the increased sensation experienced by the adrenalin increased heart-rate causing the person to feel the actual path of pulsing blood travelling through carotid artery and eventually back through the external and internal jugular vein. But just saying ‘my heart-rate increased’ doesn’t quite convey the emotion of the moment or the real feeling. It’s a bit like saying ‘it was windy’, when you free fall from 10,000 feet. It is a little more than just ‘windy’ (and your heart can be in your mouth just prior to that as well). Sometimes the moment would be lost if we didn’t make use of our wonderful vocabulary and emotional interpretations. Right now my heart was in my throat. Here in the dark room, with just enough light to see the turning door handle.

(Continued tomorrow)

Seeing, after the fact.

I was definitely curious, about so many things. And yes, right now I was probably most curious about what was going to happen to me and to my injured brother as well, but especially to me. I had not really done anything wrong as I have explained. Those of you who have followed this blog, know that it was an accident, a sequence of misguided intentions and actions, not actions ‘intended’ to be misguided (unlike many of the young people today). It was an unfortunate lapse in a critical judgement, particularly where parabolic calculations were involved (and physics could have saved us). And it was more about not having sufficient information. Had I known my brother was not as home as he was supposed to be. Lack of information, mathematical abilities, and faith in a supreme being (and I  am not referring to god here, but my father) You can see how these random sidetracks which keep happening on my blog all come together? Or indeed, possessing the same accurate ‘psychic’ abilities of my mother (though since it involved my brother then, maybe I would not have seen what was going to occur. But, take that one step further. For something as devastating as what occurred. Then if I had some psychic powers, wouldn’t I have seen the horror on the faces of others from outside the family who were gathered there? And then maybe I would have stopped from that last throw of the stilt, to ask what they were thinking of. So many threads necessary to come together.

As it was, it happened. There you are. The kite, the stilt, and the brother. It occurred. It had happened. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, for those not directly involved.  Have you ever noticed that? After some staggeringly atrocious event occurs, lots of people suddenly come forward with sage wisdom and advice. The, “I told you so” groups, and, “That wouldn’t have happened if….” spokespeople. Always too ready to say they could see what was going to happen. These people are quite useless and seriously, if they could see something occurring as they now say it did, ‘after the fact’, and they had done nothing about it. If they suggest they knew what would happen if such and such was not considered, but if they have done nothing, then I think they are twice as guilty as those who did not realise what was going to happen.

There should never be any ‘what if’s’. There is only a “what was”. We should adjust and get on with it. But, as we all knew and know, now there would be consequences.

For me the consequences were still delayed and now the evening was darkening and the sound of dinner was coming through the door. The smells had reached me long ago. That didn’t matter, as usually if punishment was to happen, we would be lucky to be considered for dinner. We may be lucky, something may be put aside, but generally it would be a ‘go without’ after the punishment had been administered.

(Continued tomorrow)

See What I Learned

It can be hard for a child to sometimes realise that, what they have been concentrating on and preoccupied for a long period of time, can be wrong. Picture this scenario. A child observes his parent, collect certain items from a cupboard. The parent then opens some items, and then by pouring, scooping or, shaking, some parts of these items (or the entire contents) are added into a bowl. The parent is then observed adding a liquid and stirring. Then pouring those items into another container, and, is observed to place that container into the large box like object (that sometimes has a light inside). It seems pretty obvious that the parent is making a cake or such. To us, that is. To the child it is simply a ‘dance’ of shapes, colours and a variety of objects, which produces an edible item. To them, it is.

The first difference is there is a likelihood the parent can read and is following a recipe and instructions. Or if like myself, thanks to the way we learnt to cook, knows what makes the planned item, and, doesn’t even need to measure. But someone at some time, had read what to use, didn’t they? However, let us then consider the child’s viewpoint. This goes into that. So, the parent did put in whole small container of grainy white stuff (sugar) Maybe the child does not need quite so much (salt). And the white powdery stuff had two containers worth. So in goes the ….. white powdery stuff is searched for and, perhaps ‘cornflour’ is chosen instead of flour. You start to see the picture? Simply watching and mimicking can achieve learning, but, it is not necessarily the best way by itself.

As children we observe and absorb massive amounts of visual information. Some of it is correct. Some of it is incorrect. We do not necessarily receive the necessary supporting information as to which, is which, unless we mimic and are then corrected. It is difficult, tiring and at times aggravating to constantly explain to a child at a pace and level the child will understand. We often sacrifice the knowledge, which should be imparted then, which would allow a greater development and better skills and abilities. This may, or may not be intentional. It does constantly occur. Even as an adult trying to educate another to take on a particular role, imparting necessary information can fail, purely because of the educator’s/guide’s viewpoint. We know. We forget the basics, because we are used to performing the actions to receive a correct result. Someone new, may not.

A child will constantly question. It is the nature of curiosity. If it is stopped, ignored or misguided by the ‘educator/ parent/ demonstrator / participant, it may be stopped forever in the child. Exceptional children can overcome this adversity. Allowing the child to question less and develop its own learning techniques. Others do not. They unfortunately form the masses. They need to be curious again and question and receive the correct information to encourage their skills to create their Independence.

(continued tomorrow)

See Me Run... (or not)

I waited in the room with the sound of the taxi driving off outside. This must be really serious. My father had not even come into the room before leaving. I waited and slowly the sounds of dinner being prepared in the kitchen by my older sisters could be heard. Then came the smell of dinner cooking. Should I go out and help? Perhaps in all the confusion, my mother had forgotten to tell my father I was even sitting in the room. That must be it! I had been sent here to await the return of my father from work by my mother, and with all that was happening, she had simply forgotten I was there. As I mentioned, her predicting what may happen to people outside the family was often uncanny, but when the family was involved, she was seldom right, and in this case… was simply ignored.

I started to reach for the door, with this thought in mind. Then stopped. Perhaps they hadn’t forgotten and they were just testing to see if I tried to overstep the boundary. I paused. That must be it, not forgotten, just being toyed with. The old, ‘Cat and Mouse’ game. The cat, letting the mouse just get far enough, to think it was safe, before reaching out and grabbing it back. To be played with (and tortured again). In fact how could I be sure my father had actually left the house? I was assuming it. I had heard the taxi arrive, the front door was knocked upon by the taxi driver. I had heard the lounge door open, and people moving down the hall, before the front door was shut and a moment later the taxi drove off.  Perhaps it was all a ploy. Perhaps my father had in fact simply waited inside the hall, after shutting the front door. Waiting for me to foolishly step out of the room I had been sent to. Playing with me. Playing with my mind (even though it was definitely bigger and smarter than a rodents) Trying to make me think I had been forgotten, or mistakenly believe he was gone. So I could then be grabbed back (and hopefully not tortured).

But surely my sisters wouldn’t be cooking so calmly in the kitchen. I would be able to ‘sense’ the fear of expectation (and sensing that, didn’t require any psychic ability). It would be palpable. I didn’t get that feeling of tension. No, my father had definitely left. And it was likely that this would be part of the punishment. To drag out the tension and fear I was experiencing. Mind you, the situation may change dramatically if my brother was in any further danger. And do not doubt, I felt horribly responsible. But, it was an accident. A series of unexpected events, that unfortunately resulted in an injury. We had a lot of accidents in our family. I both experienced them personally and unfortunately, was responsible for some, particularly if you believe that a persons actions can contribute to consequences regardless of intent.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Seeing the red.

I am not suggesting the first word you heard your child mimic was ‘Stop’. I am suggesting the first word the child learns the meaning of is “No” and the second is “Stop” (or possibly ‘don’t’ comes in a very close runner up). Our mother possessed that very precise skills found in many parents with multiple siblings, the ‘Don’t’ with ‘the look’! The single finger may also have been extended towards you (always a bad sign). But it was the tone, and the look, which even the youngest child understood very quickly. It was also around the time this combined skill was introduced to the growing child, that the child decides to ‘test the boundaries’ of the new word.

If reaching towards a freshly made biscuit on the kitchen table drew a standard ‘don’t’, from the mother, and if the ‘don’t’ command continued to be ignored, the tester was often quickly encountering some form of disciplinary pain (back of the hand being struck by hand, wooden spoon or other handy implement) then the child understood the limit of the boundaries. Then what about heading towards the socket of a power point with a knitting needle? This was sufficient to suddenly create not only a very loud, often higher decibel (and sometimes higher pitch) version of ‘DOOON’T’ which could actually result in being; swept off your feet, struck off your feet, or, if the child had been up to date with his testing. Total freezing of all motor functions.

We learnt many lessons as children with ‘No’, ‘Stop’ and ‘Don’t’ And, we also learnt many consequences (particularly, if ignoring the commands of; ‘No’, ‘Stop’ and ‘Don’t’) Not that they would be ignored for long. There was always the ultimate attention getter and clarifying explanation of exactly where those boundaries were, if one wanted to ‘push the edge of the envelope’. And usually, these boundaries were defined (selectively), by our father, if we tested them too far, or too often.

In the case of the stilt and kite incident, it wasn’t so much a testing of the boundary that had led us to this point of required clarification. But clearly, some invisible line had been crossed and my father would shortly be explaining exactly what that line was and where it existed, and no doubt I would be asked, why I had not been aware of the line before today? Or would he? The taxi driver had knocked on the door and I could hear my parents leaving the lounge and my mother going towards the front door. I heard my father giving some instructions to one of my older sisters, and my mother trying to provide some information about dinner options. Then with a slight banging, the front door was closed and they walked down the short flight of steps. The squeaking of the low metal gate signaled they had departed the property. A moment later, I heard the taxi drive off with my parents inside, and my punishment still on hold.

(Continued tomorrow)

Seeing green

My mother tried for a moment to ignore the question, but she was obviously bursting to tell. “I had a problem at the start,” she began. “I couldn’t ‘see’ anything (‘seeing’ was how see referred to her ‘psychic impressions’). She continued to explain. “But all I could see was the colour green, a whole bunch of shamrocks. Then, I finally had to say to him it wasn’t going to work. When he asked me why not, I said, I can’t see anything but shamrocks. That’s when he said his name was “Ireland” she said and they had burst out laughing. I’m never saying such skills are not real, but I can’t say they are either. My mother however, drew a lot of enjoyment (and at times exhaustion, from such incidents).

So what were the minor déjà vu experiences I have felt, may be they were linked to same ‘genetic’ background. But there were many occasions I wish our mother had been able to predict the likely outcomes of many events. And I am not referring to the phrases parents throw out when they observe their child engaged in some mildly dangerous activity. You must have seen and heard them. For example, a child starts climbing up the outside of a stair, by holding on to the rail and the moment this is observed by the parent, the parent loudly calls out. “Do not do that! You will fall”. Let’s just think about that for a moment. Does the parent mean, if the child does not climb up the outside of the rail, they will fall? Or are they predicting that once the child has climbed up the outside of the rail, they will fall. This is confusing. And it’s not an actual prediction. Or is it? Are they actually wanting the child to fall, and to thereby learn a tough lesson (not that falling can be dangerous, but that parents are always right?), or are they simply calling out to distract you and so they will see you fall, and be correct in their shouted prediction.

No. That is ridiculous of course. For if the parent was actually concerned, wouldn’t they get closer to the child and assure them in their actions? Ensuring that the child placed their ‘three points of contact’ appropriately, and would not therefore be at any risk in conducting such activities (particularly unguided in the future)? This would be far more confidence inspiring for the child, rather than shouting at the child to fail, and, causing higher stress levels, developing poor decision making skills, and creating a fear of any such future behaviour (guided or unguided). These little parenting steps often develop a child a particular way, but when parents simply call out to stop! They use the one word that the child may in fact obey. They stop. They may stop. In all things that may involve the slightest risk. “Stop!” is usually the second word they learn…. The first word I believe, was never ‘mummy” but “No!”

(continued tomorrow)

See what she can see

It was strange as I grew older and became more aware of my mothers ‘influences’. As I mentioned she never seemed to get the family things right, but perhaps that was for the best. I remember one day she had someone, a ‘client’ (she never took names) coming to the house for a reading. We were always banned from the lounge on those occasions. This could be a little rough on us, as there was no real predetermined time for the session (if mother was in the ‘zone’), which meant, that, if we wanted to eat dinner on time, we had to cook dinner ourselves.  This wasn’t a bad thing either, and it is something that has stood me in good stead all through my life. The ability to cook has led to interesting meetings, conversations and is sometimes wonderful ground-breaking skills in some of the cultures I have visited elsewhere. In this instance we were preparing dinner (quietly) in the kitchen. As quietly as can be, when several people are involved and those people are children. When pans, cutlery and chopping of vegetables are involved. Ever been into a Chinese restaurant with several woks going at the same time (a great system for cooking)? Noisy and productive. We had to be much, much, quieter than that of course.

Things were very quiet in the lounge for some time, as normally occurred when my mother was conducting a reading. We could hear the soft murmurs and comments, the subdued sounds of occasional questions and responses, before suddenly there was a loud burst of laughter. A very, loud burst, of very happy, laughter. This was unusual. Someone was very happy with what they were hearing. Which was good, but normally there was not such a vociferous response. We continued preparing dinner, but all of us were curious with such a reaction. It was some time later that as we were sitting down at the table to serve dinner, our mother came out the lounge and escorted the ‘client’ to the front door (oh, yes, ‘clients’ got to use the front door).

She then came down to the kitchen and still had tears in the corner of her eyes from laughing so much earlier (and whatever else may have been discussed after that). We looked up as she sat down at her seat at the end of the table. We waited. She smiled at us and we said grace (we still practiced some of those Roman catholic rituals). Although was what my mother did in conflict with those concepts? The church had been suspicious of such ‘arts’ over the years. And many women and a few men, had gone to their deaths, victims of the fear believed of such powers and rituals. We did say grace and as the rest of us joined in, following in a distracted way. As soon as grace was finished and we began reaching for the various bowls of vegetables and whatever the meat may have been, my sister raised the question. “Well?”

(Continued tomorrow)

See the Future ... Consequences

 To explain the meaning behind this, I will have to digress again. My mother was sort of known locally as a little bit of a ‘witch’ (if one can be a ‘little bit’ of that). My brother and I confronted her on several occasions, “We found a witch. We found a witch. Burn her, Burn her!” (In the very best traditions of that wonderful film, Monty Python and the Holy Grail©. Another film, which inspired and influenced so many moments in our young lives). Yet we had never been ‘turned into a newt, or had we dressed her up with a carrot for a nose. We never even got to see her interrogated by ‘the church’. Yes, back to the Spanish Inquisition too? (See Blog Thursday May 9^th 2012), or ultimately tied to the stake and burned…. not even thrown into the local pond to see if she floated (actually, come to think of it. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother swim in freshwater? Though she did go to the beach with us on occasion).

However, while our mother possessed certain ‘abilities’ for people ‘outside’ of the family, many of her family predictions were very wide of the mark, even if one tried to fit an interpretation to them (Even as people have done to the quatrains of Nostradamus, to make them fit into major historical terms). Maybe that’s how it was for children with a mother who was rumoured to be a little ‘psychic’? She could see some things for other people but, was seldom ever able to ‘see’ matters involving our family. But my mother was known, by those in the neighbourhood who wanted to believe it, as the lady possessing of certain psychic abilities, and, ‘other’ special skills. This is why we used the term ‘witch’. She was probably a ‘good’ witch type though.

As it was, my mother was often asked to do readings, and at some points over the years was even able to make it her living (at least to finance her holiday trips away later on). Readings, done using Tarot cards more than any palmistry, but she was reasonably good with that too. While the Tarot was interesting, the one skill I always found appealing (from a physics point) was the fore-telling the gender of a baby using a hair from the head, the persons wedding ring and a wedding photo. It depended on which way the gold ring turned as to whether it would be a male or female child. But also, and this is where the chair comes in, The white vinyl chair in the kitchen, the Maternity chair. If there was someone in the local area who wanted to get pregnant but was having difficulty (and this was before the option of IVF ever was on the horizon), they would come to our house for a ‘cup of tea’. Now while having the ‘cup of tea’ they would be sat in this chair. It was usually a very short time before the news was out that they were expecting. We boys growing up, avoided the chair from terror of the consequences.

(Continued tomorrow)

Seen it all before?

While this new attention by the arrival of the taxi possibly suggested a raise in the stakes concerning my injured brother, it was still also about me. By now I had been sitting in fear in my room waiting for the punishment that may have been due (even if unfairly), for about two to three hours. A lot can go through your mind in that time. A lot of terrifying concepts, and many scary ideas, of what to expect next, from my father. If you think it is amazing how much can flash through your mind in a matter of seconds (ever been in one of those ‘slow-motion’ affected car crashes, or near death experiences?) think how much can pass through a small child’s’ brain in a couple of hours. Of course, for a child, there can also be a lot of boredom in between. Not the inactive thoughtless boredom, but more the sidetracking type. Where you can go off on a tangent for “hours and hours”. There I am sitting on the bed, staring at the wallpaper (which I hate to this day) and imagining alternative outcomes. Like an imaginative, fantasy dream (with a type of deja-vu interpretation). You know how you want it to be, and feel as you run it through your mind, how it will turn out. And while you know it won’t be how you thought, you sort of, hope anyway.

Have you ever experienced those déjà vu moments? I have had many. One or two I have even written down, and when I became aware I was experiencing that particular memory, I would suddenly stop and try to recall exactly what I had seen occurring. However, while I have had flashes of deja-vu, none of the actual events have ever concluded as I recalled. I have seen walls, shapes, images and buildings in my deja-vu ‘dreams’ (though they are not really ‘dreams’) that are so familiar to me that I actually pause. Ever have that? Perhaps it is the pausing that causes the different outcome? Could it be that it is an alternative universe crossover that you can experience, and in a moment the’cross-over passes and you continue as you were (very sci-fi?). They say however, it is the brain, sending a signal to the long term memory, before sending it to the short term memory, and then the short term memory recognises the image due to the neural path it has taken. ‘They’ being the clever scientists, psychologists and medical persons, not necessarily the ones with the creative imaginations. My mother was more the believing it was a ‘Psychic’ kind of experience. She said it was the ‘other energy’ tapping in. Do you recall my mentioning the one chair in the kitchen (Blog may 1^st 2012) in which we were NEVER to sit in? The white vinyl covered chair which sat just behind the back door as you entered our kitchen. This was feared by all of us. It was known as the ‘maternity’ chair.

(continued tomorrow)

See where this goes

I was therefore unexpectedly surprised (although that does sort of mean the same thing, doesn’t it? Unexpected - not ready to receive, and surprised - an unexpected moment), when I heard the short, sharp, sound of a car horn, at the front of the house. I mentioned earlier we did not ever own a car. For what ever reason. Whether my father never learnt to drive and didn’t want us to realise that fact, or probably because we couldn’t afford to buy one? Probably the later, though, where all the money went to, I sometimes wondered. Having eight children was a big part of that I am sure, but, I do believe there were some issues around certain leisure and entertainment activities engaged in by my father. Though the cost was not discovered for many, many years. But, right then, as I waited for the punishment my father was probably going to administer, I heard the sound we seldom heard at our house. A taxi. It had pulled up at the house and as usual in those days, was shortly followed by a knock on the front door. The door we seldom used. Yes, in those days the taxi pulled up to the front of the residence and the driver actually came and rang the bell or knocked, to see if you needed a hand with bags or anything. Good luck today even getting a taxi driver to put your bags into the boot of the car when getting one. 

The phone call my father had made (Blog - Sunday May 27^th 2012) must have been to call a taxi. This was very unusual as I have also said, taxis were usually only ever for going out for very, very special events or occasions. Or for my father returning late from an evening at his football club/bowls club/ horse track /special group/ works function…. You get the idea. So if a taxi was called, then stakes were suddenly raised concerning the welfare of my younger brother. Maybe things were worse than had been said by the ambulance officers who attended. Maybe….? The scenes from the early American (and the later copied by Australian television) doctor programmes, flashed through my head. Where the family wait in the waiting room and the doctor (you could always tell who that was as they wore the gown they had just operated in, minus the blood), walks out and says the name of the parents and….. pauses. Big dramatic pause as everyone imagines the worse. Then, depending on where the series was up to (or which actor wanted in or out), he would say ‘I’m sorry”, or, nod sagely and smile.  To which everyone would react with great relief or sorrow. It is a visual, which even then, was ingrained in my ‘visual cortex’. And on hearing a taxi had been called to transport my parents to the hospital, I wondered what the news from the doctor could be. And, the consequences likely to affect me. Was this why my punishment was being so delayed?

(Continued tomorrow)

See What We Remember

We do learn, those of us fortunate to have sight, right from the start, to observe many visuals, particularly faces. To learn to judge the visual cues, the emotion, expression, and often the intent of those we communicate with. We learn to identify and react to what we see. At the same time, we learn to edit our own expressions and emotions, often, to our own detriment. The ‘false smile’ we may need to slap on our face suddenly, rather than actually show our true emotion. Seriously. Example. How often when someone pulls out a camera have you had to grin inanely (or insanely) as they say “Smile!” then when you haven’t (because you didn’t want to), they continue badgering you until you bare your teeth, until the camera clicks, flashes or (in many cases) doesn’t take the picture at all (particularly when on timer). Then you have to do it all again, as the camera controller runs back out to the camera and discovers what they may have done wrong.

The photographs later show a group, which, if you look at carefully, you will often see the slightly strained expressions. The visual cues of ever so slightly held expressions in the need to ‘pass on the message’ of the moment. The visuals of that moment are not truly preserved. While there are moments of great joy in life, if you were actually experiencing it, you wouldn’t worry about getting the picture. Yet for some the picture is a message, a visual for others, or sometimes, even a reminder for your self, now or perhaps, for later years. Watch many modern concerts, or events, and especially rare historical moments. You can see the people and many are holding up their cameras, phones and video recorders. All wanting to capture the moment they are actually there. What will happen with it? Will they sit down and watch it all again. The many hours that must exist already, of often poorly filmed and generally, shaky vision, low light blurred photographs or shocking audio quality? How entertaining will those videos and pictures actually be. Will the memory of the moment be refreshed in the memory? Or won’t it simply be there anyway?

We store an incredible number of visual memories. Not just alphabets and numbers, shapes and people. But we hold a massive collection of the entire visual moments and the information of all our experiences. Massively compressed into that small unit encased inside our skull. The compilation of that information is staggering, the storage even more astounding. The ability to recall a single image, or such individual information as a solitary moment from our lifespan constantly surprises. But we do tend to recall certain events clearer than others. Right now I am recalling that particular moment of me sitting in the bedroom. The wall I was staring at now, waiting for the arrival of my father. Who appeared to be drawing out his arrival in the room as much as I have drawn out the relating of this tale.

 (Continued tomorrow)

See What I Mean?

“See what I mean?” was a common phrase from many teachers when I was growing up. When, asked after explaining something difficult (or occasionally something simple), which they had just demonstrated or ‘supposedly’ explained to us as they moved, shaped or created things. Or when assisting us one on one (if you were lucky) with working out a maths problem or sentence structure in a book. At the end of the visual demonstration of the correct way of doing it, they would look at us and say “See?” Right from the start we were faced with a problem. Instead of asking, “Did you understand what I mean?” they asked if we saw it. Ummmm. There is only one answer to that question. In our heads we were asking ourselves if we saw it, and our senses told us we had seen it, so we answered “Yes”. Did we understand what we had seen? Probably, not. But the teacher wasn’t asking us that. We answered truthfully. But it didn’t mean we were on the same page (figuratively speaking).

 “I see what you mean” is often said by many people, who regularly use the English language. Now, while seeing, clearly, is very important to understanding visuals and particularly language (ask any professional lip-reader of deaf person), I have observed another strange phenomenon. Hearing someone, apparently, has a lot to do with being able to see clearly. Something I have observed many times in the population (not just the English speaking world). I recall working on a particular play once, for which I was operating the lighting, and which the director had gone for a very dark atmosphere at the opening of the production, in keeping with the mood of the intensity. As the play began in the low light, and the first actors began their conversation, there was a lot of shifting in the seats of the audience. Various members of that audience were actually leaning forward and ‘peering’ towards the stage. After  several moments there was a hoarse whisper from a member of the audience, “Speak up!” It was clearly heard alongside the dialogue. In fact, it was said at exactly the same volume as the actor’s own speech. But, as the next scene began and the light was somewhat brighter for the setting of that scene, I actually heard another member of the audience say ‘That’s better, I can hear what they are saying now”. 

So, it is obviously vitally important that when presenting or talking to any group, the lighting will depend on how well you are heard (really?). Unfortunately, yes it is. Never stand with your back to the light source (apart from making it impossible to see your face) it makes people very uncomfortable, but usually it simply means they cannot see what you are saying, or (wait for it) what you mean. Does that sound as strange to you as it does to me?

(Continued tomorrow)

See Me, Speak Me

Have you ever really examined other languages you have no idea how to read or speak? Have a look at the shape of the letters and for some, the unusual graphics that are used in the written form of the language. Scary yes. Imagine then, the dominant language of the nation you currently live in. Now imagine you are three. They become just visual shapes. Then you learn to identify those shapes and to create a name for the shape. A name you need to retain and remember. No different to any other form of visual development. You learnt to identify a ball, a tree, your mother, father, family and such. You received the information and you adapted your mind to it. Your cognitive skills created the necessary links to what you were viewing, to allow you to recall at will, what those shapes meant. So why is it that there is such a high number of people who, whilst they may have had full opportunity, cannot read? These people can manage to avoid reading for practically their entire lives. It is not an involved socially responsible way of living, but it is often a very full life. I have known mechanics, artists, even builders, who for years had kept their illiteracy a secret from others. And until required to complete actual written tests or being involved in a situation that required a minimum level of written interaction, others were none the wiser, as to the lack of written language ability of that person.

The creative ability of many illiterates cannot be denied, as often those person could provide any number of plausible reasons as to why they could not, at that particular time, engage in the reading, or writing required. Their cognitive ability existed. The skills required to create the reasons, existed. But the skill in relation to the required visual interpretation, did not. Is this laziness? Or, is it a problem of input? As mentioned, to watch one I later learned was illiterate, pull apart a mechanical engine and rebuild it, to run more efficiently and in a learnt way, complete all necessary procedures without indicating any issue, was impressive. Even to the correct settings for various distances and depths. It was not until confronted unexpectedly with a major mechanical change the situation was realised. Then came the resistance and the anger, before a successful outcome re-introduced and corrected the visual corruption, which had long been the cause for the illiteracy. He adapted throughout his life and then had to adapt again when a major change was required. But there is no denying it took its toll. The personal cost initially was enormous as he resisted admitting the need to change. Then the social cost as he struggled daily with the new demands and personal responsibility for changing. I can say, the outcome was very successful, but not without effort. The mind was prepared and very capable, to change and adapt, to learn and understand, It was the emotions which were not. They were the hardest part for him to deal with, in reaching the success of the process.

 (Continued tomorrow)

See me, see me change

Leaving art for a moment (and yet to return to my bedroom, to continue the tale of the fallen, or rather struck down, brother, - accidental don’t forget), there are significant issues with images and vision, between languages and cultures. Most people learn particular techniques when learning to read and with reading. I separate the two terms deliberately, and again the concept of bias cognitive thinking works in two ways. Read the following statement:

“Can you qukicly uednrsntad waht is wretitn in this setnnece, or is it too cosufinng?”.

Many people who are comfortable with the English language can read the above sentence quickly, eliminating certain issues with the misspelling of the words and such. Studies have shown that, if the first and last letters are in the correct position, the message can be understood as the brain will draw on it’s knowledge and correctly rearrange the information to make sense of it. Many of the studies with astronauts involved gross (as in extreme) manipulation of their vision to see how quickly they could adapt their cognitive abilities and correctly read, view and co-ordinate their operations. Even, when the various lenses they were wearing, completely inverted and reversed their vision. They adapted. We (that’s the human species, not just the local we) can do that. We can manipulate our existing knowledge and convert its understanding to accept visuals it is not ‘trained’ for. But there is no doubt the training helps. The more one is exposed to visual stimuli, and unusual art or visuals the quicker on can adapt to interpret and use that ‘knowledge’ to interpret what it is seeing, No matter how strange or unexpected.

I did, at one point of my previous career, specialise in creating unusual visual events. Such events would be presented, in the most unexpected of places. Often it was creating an entire ‘landscape’ into which people would enter to ‘party’. One of my most favourite was a complete ‘Dali’ style landscape (‘Persistence of memory’ and combined with ‘Reflections of Elephants) in the ballroom for the opening of a new hotel. Complete with sponge like sand floor and 42 metre fake horizon. Actually the whole function was great, as I got to create each area in the hotel based upon a famous artist. All for one night only. But everyone’s faces, as they entered the main ballroom was a delight. Watching them walk across the soft floor among melting watches and sofa seats (transformed into soft horse bodies)  the unexpectedness of entering into a famous landscape in their formal attire made them shift their consciousness briefly. I say briefly, because they quickly absorbed and adapted to the actual surroundings, both in the change of technique required to safely walk on the surface, as well as to the effect of the faked horizon and to the change in light. The human mind and the body, can adapt very quickly. There may of course be further adjustments, such as when leaving the room and returning to the normal floor of the adjoining ‘Miro” room. But adjust they did. As we all adjust to such visual changes and physical challenges.

(Continued tomorrow)

The eyes see, The eyes see sore

When I refer to graffiti as a form of art, I am not however speaking of ‘tagging’, which is one of the worst forms of visual pollution we currently see destroying any possible beauty of our cities today. The incessant and wilful damage of appalling graffiti, spread over many areas of private property, public property, public transport and private. The lack of any true artistic vision by scratching or spraying a couple of initials, some stylised into a shape (about the limit of the artistic endeavour) is pathetic and dreadfully primitive. It spoils architecture, damages the environment and corrupts vision.

There are some ingenious artists in the world today, whose various forms of ‘graffiti’, contributes to enhancing a building, structure, environment or even landscape. They may still do it in an un-authorised way, but sometimes it is the surprise introduction of this art, which enhances the quality of the viewer’s visual experience. Some have gone on to fame (and a little unfortunately, excessive fortune), others have simply created, to enhance their urban environment with great success. Sometimes it is their twist on perception that creates the ‘art’, other times is their real understanding of visual cognition that successfully creates a form, shape or new interpretation of what until then has been a standard form. Unfortunately there are not enough of such artists in the world (or permitting councils, building owners or citizens). Occasionally some of these artists get to create ‘installations’. Where a vacant space or a public space (occasionally), is altered from its functional purpose and becomes a place where art transforms it or (in some cases) assaults it.

Often it is the use of familiar visual cues, which are used or modified. A collection of wooden boxes, familiar objects you will agree, may be collected into covering not only areas of the floor, but the walls and even the ceiling. Transforming something familiar into an all together different landscape. One, I saw many years ago was in the corner of a space, with the walls of the space painted completely white, a large white painted rowboat lay on a beach of white …… pieces of plates. The image, while retaining familiarity of a boat on the shore, was a transformation of an understood visual. Even thirty years later I still recall the impact of the piece.

It is unfortunate that such works are only around us temporarily, instead we are assaulted daily with billboards and placards which set out to ‘burn’ a name or product into our lives. The most successful in terms of promotion may be one that it is controversial. Such a sign and will generate enormous media conversation or promotion. But it is generally just a marketing tool. There is nothing philanthropic or purely artistic for arts sake. I drew up one piece for an idea, where the frame of the billboard existed and the panel was clear Perspex with text saying simply….. “watch this space”. The text referred of course to exactly what people would be looking at and used common marketing techniques. Cleverly placed, it could be ‘art’ and ‘marketing’, if the space people looked at was a wonderful view of nature or a specific view of a city.

(Continued tomorrow)

Do you see what I see?

Apparently it is very good to stretch the visuals, which the mind needs to interpret its world. Extensive exposure to television tends to sap the mind and tire the individual, Computer games tend to over-agitate it, and exhaust them. But I don’t believe I have ever suffered too much harm, from exploring the art world in a gallery, or walking in the bush, forest, mountains, on the beaches, or hills. The daily early sunlight is supposed to be the best form of light for your health. The hard mid-day light is supposedly the worst. Perhaps there is something in the Spanish custom of taking siestas? Not just resting the body, but also the vision. I would argue the light coming off ice fields and salt plains (having been exposed to both in my time), is probably the worst form of light. But under a moon lit night, the salt plains ‘glow’, is particularly pleasing to look upon. And if a snowfield at night, the visuals can be just as beautiful. Particularly the visuals of an Aurora (the atmospheric phenomenon in the night sky around the polar regions, where solar particles interact with gases in the air to create folds, streamers, and arches of coloured lights ) or a pure star field (the awesomeness of the galaxy). I have been fortunate to have viewed both, including the night sky with night vision enhancement. Did you know when seen with that type of vision, there is barely a patch of sky that does not produce some form of starlight or particle. It is inspiring.

I am not one who looks out into the universe and feels insignificant. I look out into the universe in wonder and a deep sense of awe. Not in any religious fervour, Just awe, at all that lies before me. The word ‘majestic’ comes to mind with pause. Indigenous astronomy in Australia is different to western astronomy. Their culture refers to the ‘spaces’ in the night sky more than the stars. The stars are involved in many of the stories, but the spaces dominate. The length of the milky way for example possesses the ‘emu’ image (There is a website for those curious with a photo by Barnaby Norris which clearly shows this). Other spaces are the ‘eagles nest’ etc. We are all looking at the same sky, but do we see what others see?

This is the same concept for images. Many will say, I like art.. but what sort? Is this the line, “I don’t know if it is art, but I know what I like?” We are constantly exposed to many forms and visuals. On an average day a person in a city can be exposed to 5000 (yes, that’s five thousand) images and advertisements in a single day. Thirty years ago it was around 2000. Is it any better today? Is it any more effective? Or, is it simply more visual pollution. There are some who will say yes. Thank goodness we still have some artists who can break up the monotony of such commercial visuals and introduce other forms of visuals to our society…. But, good graffiti, is very hard to find… Not what you were thinking? No, but if done well and there is some that is exceptional (and authorised). It can make a wonderful difference to a day.

(continued tomorrow)

What you see.. is what you.....

An article I read recently referred to bias cognitive reasoning. The misconception of information by many people who thought they knew the answer without truly interpreting the information they received. To explain; one example given, that of  working out the cost of a bat and a ball, when the two cost $110.00 combined. The bat cost $100 more than the ball, so, how much did the ball cost? Practically every person answers $10. Which is (of course) wrong. People know how to do maths, but due to their skill, they ignore the necessary information. The answer is of course $5. The bat (which cost $100 more than the ball) costs $105.

It’s simple when it is pointed out. But it is a simple mistake, which creates evidence of the bias for your skills (reading, mathematics) on your information. This can often be similar to the poor image recognition by people. An interesting visual test offered in some visual experiments, has the words of different colours written in full (as in ‘BLUE’ or ‘RED’) however the word ‘blue’ may be written in green and the word red may be written in yellow. The test is to read the colour out loud, not what the word says. This is very difficult to do, as your brain tends to interpret the visual, over the actual information.

In some ways there is an entire marketing system that have the belief that people can be triggered to react to information through visual stimulus. This has been used (supposedly) for subliminal advertising and even product placement. Movies are famous for this. Encouraging people to buy certain products and they were not even being aware that it was being promoted to them. However there is also the drawback, and this is what I have noticed. People seem not to. People do not seem to notice much of the visuals being thrown at them. If it was that simple, everyone would be doing it and getting it right. You cannot deny there are many agencies in the world spending vast amounts of money to research what people think. Or trying to research what people think, but many times they revert back to a successful visual effect over other alternatives (ever notice how small the ‘small print’ is even on television?).

The other unfortunate technique is to saturate people with the same add (sometimes in the same add break). When my son was young and at about five years old, before we let him watch ‘Television’. We had only let him watch pre-approved VHS’s until then (Yes this was before DVD’s for those of you too young to remember even VHS). After his first day of watching it, he walked away singing a bouncy little number, “Call, Call, Carpet Call. The experts in the trade”. It was the jingle for a carpeting company. Yes within a day of watching he had absorbed an advertisement (Try and tell me children are not influenced by what they see on television or in films).

(Continued tomorrow)

Look but don't See

It is strange that some people don’t recognise visual clues. Particularly in television, or in films. They miss an obvious signal in a film or a particular clue as if they cannot see it. I remember how in many of the old films I used to see the ‘edit’ punch mark. You may have seen this and if not, well, I can tell you, as nowadays they don’t use this system so you won’t be bothered by it as I was growing up. Once I knew about it, it really used to bother me, as I would always see it. Just before the change in a shot, there it was, ‘flashing’ at me from the corner. I often asked people if it bothered them and the would look at me blankly. “What?” “The little circle mark that keeps flashing”, I used to say. “No, I didn’t see it.” Was the standard reply. “But , you must have. It happened hundreds of times during the movie” I would reply exasperatingly. But they hadn’t noticed. (They probably didn’t like subtitle movies either as they say they can’t watch the movie and read the sub title at the same time. However, what the little flashing circle was, was this. Before digital editing, a film was specifically cut and joined at particular places to create the cross fades, or jump cuts you grew up seeing in films. We actually used to paste/glue or Sellotape (sticky tape) the various segments to each other. When we did that the film used to get a little scratch mark in the top right corner to signal to the negative printer that a change was coming up. It was usually a small irregular circle shape that flashed up in the top right corner, approximately two seconds, then again at around 12 frames (of the 25frames per second that films used to run at, so half a second or so), before the change.

So while I saw these things other didn’t. And this is why they could watch something over and over and not realise till nearly finished. Surely they recognised something they were looking at before. I know many don’t even recognise landmarks or important signs. We ran a test here in Australia for drivers who had been driving for more than ten years and asked them to identify a series of road signs. Mainly the standard signs. A give way sign, a stop sign, a speed limited sign, etc. On some, we made simple colour changes, or we changed the wording to the shapes they were used to, or turned the shape of the sign upside down etc, and sadly most couldn’t see what was wrong. Consequently they answered all the questions incorrectly. But it was clear, they didn’t actually read the road signs they went past every day. Part of this exercise was pointing out how much of driving is automatic as you think you already know what you are seeing, and maybe this is why there are so many traffic crashes.

(continued tomorrow)